


Lazarus And The Smoking Gun

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Politics, Post Series, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three years since Goolding.  The Party’s up the proverbial in a leaking canoe.  In a time of crisis where else can it turn but to its own self-raising Lazarus?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11:00

**Author's Note:**

> Was Malcolm’s downfall screw-up or stitch-up? I suppose the former but there’s something about the idea of Tucker the good Party man taking the fall as officially-sanctioned sacrificial lamb that I couldn’t resist writing. Anyway, I don’t like the idea of that atrocious little bleeder Ollie coming out on top!

“Have you seen the papers?”

“Why would I read the fucking newspapers?” Ashen and gaunt, the Director of Communications to the party of what felt like perpetual opposition raised his head from his paper-strewn desk, knocked back the dregs of his drink and scowled at his titular boss. The Right Honourable (in the strictly parliamentary sense only) Dan Miller M.P. raised both hands in the universal sign of surrender.

“Sorry. I thought you might’ve read _his_ piece in the _Guardian_.”

It was, Oliver Reeder mused, a backhanded compliment to the old monster. Even now, after three years and sixty five thousand three hundred and forty four crises where his name might have been raised - or his spirit invoked – the most powerful members of the party still tiptoed around it like the wizarding community had Voldemort’s. 

“I’m depressed enough, all right? Unless you’re hoping to distract attention from your CATASTROPHIC fucking leadership by filming me leaping off the fucking roof on your iphone I’d rather you didn’t draw my attention to his take on my fucking alcoholic incompetence!”

Dan smirked. “He doesn’t actually mention the drinking.”

“If this disaster of an election’s proved one thing, Dan, it’s that YOU are not fucking funny. Or persuasive. Or, whatever we tried to say, fucking sexually attractive. So: when are you going to fall on your sword, or do I have to take a leaf out of Malcolm’s very extensive book and fucking TRIP YOU ONTO IT?”

“Oh come on, Ollie, you know what’ll happen if I resign.” Slippery as a lubed sea lion but not half as entertaining, Dan wrung his hands and adopted his _sincerely concerned_ pose: the one a certain newspaper contributor had likened – accurately – to that of a severely incontinent pensioner trying to hold it in at the Post Office. “The Party would implode. The unions want to turn back the clock fifty fucking years; Julius Nicholson wants to turn us into tree-humpers with a capitalist twist and the backbenchers don’t give shit as long as they’ve still got their perks and there’s a head on a stake. Even Nicola Murray’s stuck her head out of the shit pile _he_ shoved her into, offering her services as a fucking intermediary! We’ll be unelectable until Captain Kirk’s shagging his way ‘round the universe if I abandon the bridge now!”

“And of course we’re having this conversation because you’re such a fucking convincing P.M, Dan! For fuck’s sake! The government’s an environmental fucking disaster – the Woollies couldn’t win an egg and spoon race if they tied everyone else’s shoe laces together and superglued their own fuckin’ egg in place, the posh tossers still can’t find their way out of their fucking port and pot clubs before closing time without help, and we STILL couldn’t convince more than a third of the public you’re a fucking alternative!”

“ _You’re_ supposed to put out the fucking line! That’s what a communications directorate’s supposed to do, COMMUNICATE with the fucking voters! Do you want to hear what your predecessor says? Do you?”

“No!”

“Tough!” Clearing his throat, Dan unfolded the paper he carried, flipping it open to a pre-marked page. “It’s painful to see the party I love soiling itself; wandering off the line like a drunkard on a tennis court.”

“I thought you said the bastard didn’t mention….”

“It’s a metaphor, Ollie; by his standards quite a mild one. And you’ve got to admit, he has a point.”

“Yeah, right between my fucking shoulder blades.”

“He’s been kind to you considering his memoirs speared most of the Party right up the rectum.” It was Dan’s turn to blench, throwing aside the offending article as he began to pace like a gigantic shiny metronome across the other man’s line of sight. “And I’m the one he calls weak, ineffectual and as appealing to the electorate as a porcupine in a kiddies’ ballpit.”

“Not lost his way with words,”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“If you’d like to leave my office, you know where the door is.”

“And if you’d like to leave your job – which you’ve made a complete shitty horlicks of, by the way - they’ll accept your ID at the door.”

“Yeah, maybe I should do that!” On his feet, leaning across his desk and roaring, Ollie Reeder felt better than he had in years. “For fuck’s sake, do your own fucking communicating, you pompous unelectable TWAT! Not even Malcolm Tucker could con the public into making a vacuous droid like you Prime Minister! Christ only knows how he managed to get the Party to even elect you as its fucking tea boy!”

“Because he’s fucking good, that’s why! Jesus, he’s even managed to spin himself out of the fucking gutter where he belonged!”

“The last honest man in British politics.” Anger, resentment and humiliation, Ollie had to admit, paled in comparison with sheer, green-faced fucking envy at the old self-raising Lazarus’s triumphant rehabilitation. And he’d only had to hammer the face of every tosser, scumbag and moral incontinent he had ever blackened his soul to save into the shit while doing it.

That, Ollie acknowledged reluctantly, was class. “Well maybe you should get down on your knees and beg him to come back! If he could spin his way out of all that shit maybe he can work another fucking miracle and turn you into a presentable member of the human fucking race!”

The glass panels in his door were still shivering five minutes later when Susan, his pretty blonde PA risked tapping lightly for his attention. “BBC News has phoned again asking for a spokesman for the Lunchtime. Shall I…”

“Whatever.” Drained. Empty. Was this what Malcolm had meant with that last defiant, agonised blast? He could remember it word for venomous word; not surprising considering how often he had contemplated it in the nuclear winter his life had been since.

A husk. An empty shell with only the name of the man he’d once been. That’s what the most powerful political force of Ollie’s experience had called himself as he left this building for the last time. You won’t last eighteen months without destroying yourself, sonny; that had been his message.

Well, he’d survived longer than that. Sort of.

Idly he turned on the television in the corner, wincing at its brightness. “It’s less of a problem for the Party that the electorate don’t trust Dan Miller than that they don’t take him seriously, Tim. They don’t trust the other fella either but he’s not the one been curled up in a corner yelling _“we’re all doomed”_ like that old bloke off Dad’s Army for the whole campaign, has he? If you want people to take you seriously as a potential leader, it does help if you can look a wee bit serious.”

“Oh for fuck’s SAKE! He’s haunting me again!”

The language might be temperate – another successful direction-change – but the Glaswegian rasp was as unmistakable as the lean, hawkish features of the man on the screen. “DAN! Get your arse over to the BBC studio NOW! In the absence of an official spokesman for the Fucked-Up and Retarded Party they’ve got Malcolm McFucking Tucker in to fucking pontificate about your disastrous fucking leadership!”

He wanted to turn the tormenting image off; he had that much power, he could use a fucking remote control and just make the man disappear, something he had yearned to do in those distant days when it had been Malcolm’s job to manage the shit storms and his to protect his suit from the old brown spray as best he could. He couldn’t be forced to hear those withering verbal eviscerations of his job, his education and his fucking moral standards any more!

But he couldn’t turn away. Tucker’s long hands waved before him like cobras rising from the snake charmer’s basket, the words flowing easily, almost melodic in that rich Scots brogue. It still felt wrong not to hear at least one expletive per sentence, but there was something strangely soothing about hearing the old bastard dictating the agenda again.

It took him back to the good old days. When there was, if not power, at least the illusion of it. Fancy offices and ministerial appointments. Even, occasionally, a bit of positive coverage to enjoy.

“You’d accept, Mr Tucker that your party is, in the words of one source this morning, up the proverbial in a leaking dinghy?”

He even chuckled – bastard! – at that. “Oh, there are enough fingers can be shoved through the holes in the bottom; providing somebody has the courage to accept getting dirt under their fancy polished nails for a change! All the polls have been showing that people are crying out for some honesty and what have they been getting? The same stained cotton wool we were throwing out ten years ago.”

Polished steel eyes pierced the camera. To Oliver Reeder it felt they were going right through into what shreds were left of his soul. “Somebody once told me politics has changed, but it hasn’t; they’re still more concerned about how they look on the telly than what they do. My party needs to take a good, long look at itself before it even starts trying to look the voting public in the eyes again.”

“Listen to him, mister upright and fucking honourable.” Miller, he realised. Back loitering at the door like a teacher caught wanking in the sixth form’s bog trying to decide whether he dared enter the staff room again. “He’ll be telling them we need a wide-ranging and honest debate about our future direction next!”

“And probably a new leader while we’re about it.” 

“Yes, and someone in communications who doesn’t rely on fucking smoke signals to get our message across!”

“Smoke signals would’ve got a more positive press than your speeches; I’ll advise my successor to try them.”

“Oh, you’re resigning then?”

Using the edge of the desk to steady himself Ollie rose to his full impressive height. “Somebody has to do the decent thing, since our just-about-elected representatives have got marbles for fucking balls!” he roared.

“Oh, that was good; that was almost good enough for him. Pity you can’t do the rest of the job as well!”

“Sorry you screwed him over now, eh? Wishing you’d stuck with the devil you knew, even with all the shit he had on you? Well, just tell him there’s a fucking vacancy and I’ll clear the empties out of my fucking desk! You won’t last five minutes with Malcolm Tucker, you mincing, over-Botoxed PRICK!”

As if he could hear them the wry, mocking laughter of the man himself echoed from the television screen. “Oh, no; I’m done with all that jumpin’ through hoops to make the congenitally useless look remotely competent. That’s some other poor fu – fella’s job now, and he’s welcome to it.”

“He can still lie with a straight face then.”

“Oh, well, that’s the main qualification for this job, isn’t it? And for yours as well, when you think about it. Yeah, maybe you should go down on your knees and start begging the Gorbals fucking Goebbels to come back!”

“Oh, grow up, Ollie! Shouting and swearing isn’t going to dig the party out of the shit!”

“All you’re going to do is dig us deeper into it!”

They glared at a range of inches, each seeing the other in a tired, defeated mirror. “Maybe I should call _him_ ,” Miller admitted, too weary to yell any more. “Even with his past history he couldn’t make more of a balls of it than we have, could he?”

Ollie waited for his leader to trudge out before heaving the bottle from his bottom drawer. “No,” he admitted into its inviting, transparent depths. “And he stayed fucking sober in the process, the smug twat. I’m going to the pub!”


	2. 15:30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can take the man out of politics. Taking politics out of the man is a completely different matter....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say established relationship, I mean very established. Stranger things have happened....

The late spring sunshine streamed through their half-open front windows as she strolled into the lounge, pausing to ruffle her husband’s thick iron-grey hair. He glanced up from the laptop on his knees and smiled the slow, sweet smile he’d always reserved specifically for her. “Anything interesting?” she hinted.

“The Pie Club’s in session again.” The man could be taken from politics, but politics would never leave the man. “Jesus _Christ!_ That cunt McWilliams couldn’t keep a fuckin’ secret with every fucking orifice sewn up; he’s already being quoted saying the Party needs to get back to its working class roots. Somebody wants to tell that retard, the working class have got ambition now. They don’t want fucking lectures from a union official who’s never done a day’s proper work in his fucking LIFE!”

“It’s going to be a bloodbath, isn’t it?” Part of her was thankful he wouldn’t be involved. The rest of her wished he was. Somebody with a brain needed to get involved before their beloved party could set about the serious business of tearing itself limb from damaged limb.

She perched on the arm of his chair, working her fingers across his scalp. He tilted his head, silently encouraging her touch. When his Blackberry began to beep, neither moved to answer it.

“It’s for you, you know.”

“Probably some twat wanting me to claim for mis-sold PPI.” He sighed, pushing the computer off his lap. Luxuriating in her caress. 

She tutted and snatched the infernal device herself. “Hello?”

“Ah, the delightful Mrs Tucker! Is the laird in residence?”

“Julius Nicholson.” Malcolm’s head turned and her fingers tightened, twisting a few steely strands hard enough to make him wince. She couldn’t help it. Just the sound of his voice brought back all the helpless anger of the Party’s betrayal. “I could say what an unexpected honour, but it’s neither, is it? Lord Baldie Bonce for you, Malcolm.”

“Thank you.” With great deliberation he flipped the device onto loudspeaker and dropped it onto the cushion at his side. The other man’s careful laughter – slightly strained, ever-so-insincere - trickled into the airy room.

“And to think we all wondered what that charming young woman could possibly find in common with you, Malcolm!” Lord Nicholson of Arnage - Lord Baldiemort or Baron Bankrupt in Malcolm’s friendlier moments – chortled. “You’ve seen the news, I suppose?”

“Oh, I never watch that now, Julius. No.M.Fu.P. and all that shite. Of course I’ve seen the fucking news! The question is: why’ve you dragged your saggin' arse off the old red leather mortuary bench to ring me about it?”

“Because we need your help, Malc.”

The sound of teeth grinding always made her wince but before she could point out that only his nearest and dearest – decidedly excluding the noble lord – were permitted liberties with his given name he was barking out the derisive laugh she remembered as the preliminary to countless ministerial carpetings. “That goes without saying, y’ Oxbridge nonce. I’m fuckin’ dead to this party until it needs another pound of fucking flesh. What this time?”

“Miller’s refusing to step down. The Comrades are in conclave. Somebody has to force our beloved leader out of the hot seat and into the electric chair and _you_ , my devious old associate, hold the smoking gun with the silver bullets. Or something of that ilk.”

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Malcolm’s lean features had frozen, the old, gimlet glint back in his grey-green eyes. “Fuck off. That’s over.”

“Malcolm I realise it’s distressing to rake over the past, but the Party needs you.”

He was naturally pale, but those words turned him ashen. “Fuck you, Julius,” he growled, low and intent. She stretched out to take his free hand, rubbing it gently between her palms. He flicked her a grateful smile. 

“There are people within the hierarchy who know precisely what you did for them. Your sacrifice hasn’t been forgotten.”

“I should bloody well think not!” she erupted.

“Shush, Sam. Julius….”

“Please, Malcolm. Unless we deal with Miller now the party will sink back into the morass of the 1980s; we’ll be the Party of Perpetual Effing Opposition, tearing ourselves apart. If we can remove the head of the hydra now…. Just – please, join me for dinner at the club tonight and we’ll discuss it.”

“Sorry. Sam and I have plans, and if you think I’m fuckin’ up our anniversary for your sake…”

“A year already, congratulations to you both. Perhaps a drink then, the three of us, before you continue your celebrations? I know you love our party, Malcolm; I only wish its leaders shared your commitment.”

“Tossers couldn’t spell the word.” In that contemptuous rasp was the authentic sound of their Downing Street courtship and in spite of herself the former Sam Cassidy felt her heart leap for joy. She caught his eye. Nodded slightly.

He pursed his lips. “All right, Julius. Just this once. For the good of the fuckin’ Party, OK?”

“Excellent, I knew we could rely on you! Is seven o’clock acceptable; I’m booking a small room, always best not to spill blood in public, eh? Happy- _ness!_ ”

“If the blood in question is Quisling Miller’s I’d recommend the middle of Oxford Street on the last shopping day before fucking Christmas!”

Malcolm’s head shot up, his intent expression softening at the sight of her fierce one. “It’s all right, love,” he said quietly. Over the line, Julius coughed.

“Actually Malcolm, it isn’t. There are a lot of guilty consciences over your, ah, premeditated downfall.”

“Yeah, and a lot of shitted nappies, ‘cos I still know where the bodies are fuckin’ buried, right?” Conscience and politics were uneasy bedfellows; nobody knew that better than the man who had exploited one for the good of the other. 

Shifty. That was the word Sam had always associated with Julius Nicholson, especially when he tried to _make nice_. “Which is what makes you indispensible in a time of crisis! Until this evening, then!”

“Well,” he said, waiting just long enough for the call to disconnect – a courtesy he’d never have bothered with if he loathed the pompous lording as much as he made out, Sam knew. “That’s our romantic evening fucked. Sorry.”

Part of him probably meant it. It hadn’t been easy but Malcolm Tucker had adapted to life outside the Westminster bubble, with a Blackberry that didn’t bleep every other second and a succession of incompetents, liars and fools outside his door waiting their turn to be roasted alive. 

She couldn’t force herself to forget the broken-down shell of a man he had been in the days immediately after the inquiry, before the trial and a battle of wits with prosecuting counsel had stoked the fire in his belly. She’d been really worried about him.

He hadn’t admitted it until later but he’d been worried about him, too. 

Acquittal, bestselling memoirs and a stream of television appearances as the go-to man for trenchant Whitehall assessment had worked wonders, although spinning himself from the feared master of every dark political art to the last honest man in the business had required every ounce of his formidable talent and charisma. The fact it had rubbed the noses of Dan Miller and his faction into their own shit to see him rise again only added to the satisfaction, at least for her.

Still, she knew something inside him had died when he left Party HQ for the last time. His entire adult life had been given over to its service and that was his reward – tossed to the wolves, a battered, half-broken blood sacrifice to divert scrutiny from the shiny new regime he had helped install.

It wasn’t the disgrace that had come closest to destroying him. It was the betrayal. 

For the first time in her life, Samantha Tucker was glad her party had fucked up its election chances. 

She leaned in, capturing her husband’s face between her hands, and kissed him hard. “Happy anniversary, my darling,” she murmured. His brow furrowed.

Then he grinned, the wide, mischievous smile that had turned her heart over the very first time she saw it – her third day in his office, Sam remembered, when he’d despatched the editor of the _Mail_ with all the relish of a small boy attacking a picnic. “Yes,” he agreed slowly. “It looks like it might be, love.”


	3. 19:00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenge is sweet. Malcolm and Sam aren’t the only ones to realise that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still not clear on the correct spelling of Mr Tickle/Tickell so I’ve gone for the middle way!

Only one member of their party, she reflected, would choose this place for an assassination; and if he thought he’d been discreet about it the looks she and Malcolm received while making their way across the large oak-panelled public dining room suggested he was wrong. “We’d have got less attention walking into a working men’s club in a mining village, if there were any left of course,” she muttered.

“He’ll have thought of that. Even he’s not that dense. Evening Julius, you mincing old pissbag.”

“Malcolm.” The light of two tall lamps against the wall behind glinting off his polished pate, Lord Nicholson oiled their way with hands outstretched. “Mrs Tucker, looking radiant I must say, anniversary salutations to you both! Let me get you a glass of wine – it’s an excellent vintage, no, do take a seat, we shan’t keep you long.”

Other people, she knew, would look askance at the chivalry with which her infamous spouse drew out her chair. Julius didn’t turn one of his few remaining hairs, merely presenting her with a brimming glass of something crisp and sparkling. “We?” she echoed.

When he tried to look conspiratorial, tapping the side of his nose and smirking, he managed to look like a hairless public school prick on rag week, only much less frightening. Before Malcolm could do more than open his mouth a second door half covered by extravagant foliage opened opposite them.

“Dan, thank you for coming so promptly.” Unaccompanied for once and visibly off-balance, his usually groomed dark hair flopping over one eye, Dan Miller hesitated on the threshold. For a split second Sam seriously thought he might bolt.

“Julius. You know I only come here for the good food, certainly not the company. Malcolm.”

“Dan.”

Pure loathing. Oh, and fear. On Miller’s side, Sam decided, definitely fear.

“I’m sure you understand why I’ve asked Malcolm to join us, Daniel.” This was a side she hadn’t seen in Nicholson before, the large, shorn cat with a mouse on the end of his paw. And that use of his baptismal name had definitely provoked a reaction, Botoxed as Miller’s smooth facial features usually were. 

“And if you make any of your half-arsed jokes about this being one of the Chancellor’s keys-in-the-pot parties, I’ll have your bollocks covered with sequins for my wife’s anniversary present, right? 

Julius winced, delicately. Dan tried a tight smile. “You see,” the shiny one began, “we need to have a little chat about loyalty.”

“As defined in the O.E.D,” Malcolm added, no less smooth and urbane; always, as everyone present knew, a dangerous sign. “Lookin’ at those bookcases there’s probably a copy in there somewhere if anyone can find a key that’s not covered in rust. You want to dig it out and learn something?”

“If I didn’t know better, gentlemen, I’d think you were trying to threaten me.” Bluster. The politician’s weapon of choice. “It’s not very loyal to be doing that to your party’s elected leader is it?”

“Remember who got you elected leader, Dan?” Nicholson faded into the background; boring politicians to death was his forte, not scaring them, and looming out of the shadows like a lean grey avenging spirit Malcolm hardly needed anyone else’s help. “The same man who stopped your first attempt in its tracks. Christ, even Nic’la Murray got more votes. You couldn’t make yourself the fucking milk monitor without my help, son, and you hated it. Didn’t you?”

“Nobody could make themselves Party Leader without you, Malcolm. Even Tom realised that, and look what a disaster he was.”

“He got closer to winning a General Election than you did,” Julius pointed out unhelpfully. Two pairs of narrowed eyes swivelled his way. “Just an observation, don’t mind me. The point is, Daniel, what we were saying about loyalty…”

“The Party needed to break with its past. You knew that, Malcolm, or you wouldn’t have…”

“Fallen on _your_ sword?” Sam suggested quietly. 

Her interruption struck like a hand against his face. “Er – no, well…”

“Let’s no’ fuck around here, Dan.” Cold and inflexible as cast iron, his voice sliced across the inane stuttering and she sank back into her chair, relieved to hear the anger; glad to have a front row seat for the show. “You were the Party’s best chance of makin’ itself electable sometime before Prince George of Poxbridge gets to wear the big blingy fuckin’ hat at Westminster Abbey: you knew it, I knew it, even Baron fuckin’ Softcock here knew it. And you fucking knew I knew it, you preening pretentious PRICK! You knew I’d take it up the fucking arse for this fucking party one last time if it meant you having a hope in HELL of gettin’ us back into government, and you couldn’t even do THAT with J.B. and his bunch of brain-dead CUNTS fuckin’ up once a fucking week for the last three years!”

“Fan-daby-dozy, this takes me back!” Julius, she realised, had moved; edging away from the lava flow to hover like an obsequious waiter at her shoulder. “You see, Daniel, you have a choice. _Here_ -“ pointing at the glowering Scot “-is your smoking gun. You, sir, can either blow your brains out in private, or…”

“We’ll frogmarch y’ out into the middle of Horse Guards fucking Parade and make a fuckin’ party of it,” Malcolm concluded.

Dan cleared his throat. Rubbed his nose. Tried to rally.

“Of course it’s awfully difficult to prove the source of a leak; you of all people know that, Malcolm. And of course you’re both finished politically. I saw to that.”

“Did you now?” 

“Nobody takes the Lords seriously, Julius; you’re even more of a joke spouting off there than you were advising Nick’s government – why do you think Tom booted you up there so fast? And you, Malcolm! The last honest man in British politics, pissing from the sidelines because _I_ was too clever for you. Nobody’s going to take your word over mine over the leaking of sensitive information, are they? Apart from the former Mrs Tickel who’s even going to care?”

“All of those people who closed their eyes to your little plot against a loyal Party servant because they expected you to bring them back into power?” Julius volunteered

“Before you shitted your chance up like a newborn with fucking colic,” Malcolm added with relish. “Plenty of people know that I threw myself in front of your fucking firing squad. Even Fatty’s lot worked that one out!”

“And he is, as you said Daniel, widely regarded as the last honest man in a dishonest business – marvellous piece of media manipulation by the way, Malcolm, possibly your greatest work. You, on the other hand, are a failed party leader. Another polished public school turd: although not as polished as my head, obviously. Rather a good line, don’t you think?”

Briefly they were united. “No,” said Dan.

“Fuckin’ shite line,” said Malcolm.

Julius raised his hands in an airy gesture of apology. “No matter. The question to the Right Honourable gentleman remains. Are you going to fire the fatal shot, or shall we summon the assorted self-righteous hackery of Westminster to the bullet-pitted wall?”

Dan’s mouth sagged open. He emitted a strangled croaking sound. 

The door behind him crashed open. On a haze of alcoholic fumes a tall, thin figure in trenchcoat and glasses, dark hair hanging lank onto his collar, staggered sideways into the room. “Hold the firing squad, Jools my old chum,” Oliver Reeder slurred, his baleful glare wandering from one stricken face to the next. “’ve just started them building the gallows. Hanged, drawn and quartered! That’s what you’re gonna be, Boss-man! I’ve leaked.”

“From which end?”

“All the right fuckin' ones, just like the old bastard taught me. Evening, Malcolm. Must be nice to know you were fuckin’ right, eh?”

Only one who knew him as well as she, Sam was sure, would catch the flare of sadness that chased across her husband’s face. “Must be,” he said neutrally. Ollie’s mouth twisted into a slack grin.

“’s worth it though. Now I’ve shafted _him_.”

The pointing finger trembled more than Malcolm’s ever had, but the general aim was true: right into Dan Miller’s forehead. “I’ve leaked the leak,” Ollie announced triumphantly. “You’re gonna be Tickeled by the _Telegraph_ , Danny-Boy. Anyone want tickets for the hanging?”

“Malcolm forgive me, but I have to do this.” Sliding out of her seat in a figure-hugging emerald satin number wasn’t easy. Doing it in heels, which she loathed, was even tougher, but on this occasion it had to be done. Watched by three open-mouthed men Sam crossed the floor and planted a soft kiss on Ollie’s cheek, not even wrinkling her nose against the odour of alcohol, both fresh and stale, that clung to him. “Thank you,” she whispered before backing away, her fingers already spread to link with her husband’s. 

“You’ve leaked to the _Telegraph_?”

“Yep. Told ‘em exactly who set up the whole fucking Tickel-Tattle.” The longer this went on, the more sober Ollie appeared. Julius, Sam suspected, was on the verge of laughter. 

Or hysterics.

“You’ll knock the other bastards off the front tomorrow and you’ll like that, won’t you, your smug fucking mug everywhere? And everybody’ll be talking about how clever you were, stitchin’ up the big man here so you could rule the fucking Party your own way. HA!”

As he spoke he’d been getting closer to the petrified Miller, shouting the last mocking syllable right into his face. “Prob’ly doesn’t mean a lot but I’ve always regretted fucking you over like that, Malc. I mean you might be a bullying bastard, but you’ve got principles, yeah? Most of these gobshites’ve trampled theirs in the rush to get themselves a name, you know?”

“I know.” The words leaked between thinned lips. Ollie grinned.

“Dunno how you stayed almost sane so fucking long around ‘em,” he bellowed, throwing an arm over Dan’s shoulders and hugging tight when the other man would have slithered away. “Glad you did, though; everything I know about crucifyin’ a failure I learned watching you. Always did kind of admire you, even before I started tryin’ to do your job. Big boots to fill, you know? Don’t s’pose you care, but I’d like you to know.”

“ _I_ care.” Every time she spoke up they looked shocked; as if she was still his dutiful P.A. not the loving wife. “And I’m sorry, Ollie.”

“Yeah.” Half-cut he might be but he understood; the shit was about to hit the fan and some of it would stick to him. “Still, gotta be done. For the Party, I mean. ‘s not like it’s revenge or anything.”

Julius nodded gravely. “Well,” Ollie added with all the candour of the professionally inebriated, “not completely. ‘njoy you last supper, Danno. Your last one as leader, anyway.”

He was halfway to the door, rocking like a sailor on a storm-tossed deck, when something struck him and he wheeled around. “Oh! Yeah, happy anniversary, Tuckers. P’raps if I’d been shagging Susan….”

“She’d probably have preferred Fatty! Bastard! This is fucking treason!”

“That’s one word you don’t need to look up in a dictionary, Daniel, isn’t it?” Long hands clasped together, Julius beamed benevolently upon the furiously pacing politician. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it would seem the curtain’s coming down on this particular drama. The game’s afoot, the conclaves begin…. What do you say, Malcolm, white smoke from Party HQ to proclaim the new pontiff?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Only if someone’s gonna set light to Fatty’s farts. You know, Dan, you’re going to need yourself a fuckin’ good media guy to get yourself out of this. Pity none of them’ll touch you with a ten foot fucking pole! Come on, Sam – table’s booked for eight and we’ve wasted enough time on these wankers for one night. Never a pleasure, Julius.”

“As ever, Malcolm.” For a moment they actually grinned at each other. “Young Mister Reeder, eh? I never would have thought he had it in him.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know him.” Gently helping Sam back into her shawl Malcolm hesitated for a second to spear a last venomous glance across the room. “He never did make himself the best fucking Malcolm Tucker tribute band in Manchester, but he’s not all bad. Got some loyalty at least.”


	4. 23:45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News travels fast these days. Sam’s not entirely sure that’s such a good thing....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This ending has an unhealthily high sugar content!

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” The taxi’s headlights glinted back from a myriad camera lenses all of them focused, Sam realised more slowly than her husband, on their front gate. “Not all this again, the neighbours’ve only just started speaking to me after the last fuckin’ invasion! You want to stop here, or can you just plough through the middle of them?”

“Pull in here if it’s all the same to you, mate. I’m doing a mate’s lates as a favour, and if his missus finds out…”

Shadowy figures swarmed across the street in front of them. “Malcolm! Malcolm, any comment?”

“Will Dan Miller stand trial?” 

“Will you go back into politics now, Malcolm?”

Sam staggered slightly in climbing out on the pavement side of the car, dazzled by a battery of flashes and disorientated by the wall of clashing sound as reporters surged her way. How Malcolm could move so fast, so confidently, she had no idea.

She was profoundly grateful, however, that he could. A strong arm wound around her and a low voice growled against her ear. “Just keep walking, pet. I’m here.”

“Malcolm, you’ve heard the news? Dan Miller was behind the Tickel leak!”

“Typical _Express_ , three years behind the rest of the fuckin’ world. Back off, will ye?” 

“Will you write another volume of memoirs now, Malcolm?”

They were focussing on him, she knew; scattering out of his way like terrified ministers once had, the voices swirling around them now, clashing, questions getting jumbled with comments, the noise closing in around her. Sam had been through the melee at his side before – the day of his acquittal sprang to mind – but this, in the dark, so close to the safety of their front door, was so much more frightening. She shrank back against his body, narrowing her eyes against the incessant flicker of flashbulbs. 

“Are you going to sue, Malcolm?”

“Oliver Reeder’s making a statement tomorrow…”

“Then you’d best find yourselves a telly in a shop window and watch it. Mind the hedge!”

Closer. Closer. That was their gate, almost near enough to touch.

Like a clockwork phantom on the ghost train a pale face loomed across her vision, all staring eyes and a wide, gaping comic-book mouth. Breath that reeked of garlic and peppermint blew across her cheek. “Sam, any comment?”

“I said _back off!_ Fuckin’ _microbe!_ ” 

They all, she knew instinctively, fell back under that venomous hiss, clearing enough of a path for her to stumble through the gates with him on her heels, already fumbling for his keys. She wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t flick them a V sign (he’d done it before under the guise of a quick wave, she knew) before slamming the door on their hysterical shouts.

“You OK?”

Whether she was or not, Sam knew her line. “Of course. D’ you think they’ll stay out there all night?”

“No, the pubs are still open. Give ‘em half an hour they’ll be gone.”

She arched a sceptical brow. “Seriously?”

He grinned, sheepish. “No. But fuck ‘em all. They’re not spoiling our anniversary, right?”

She stepped into his open arms, nuzzling her cheek against his chest. “Nothing could spoil that.” 

From the corner of her eye she registered a sudden, muted flash. “Not even the fucking press trying to catch us snogging through our own front door. Sleep in the spare room tonight?”

“If you think I’m sleeping in a single bed on our anniversary, lass, you’re madder than Glummy Mummy with her wooden fuckin’ toys.” He eased the wrap from her shoulders so tenderly she didn’t notice until it hit the floor. 

“Mmmm, you always said it was cosy at my flat.” His coat had to go, too. And the jacket. 

“Yeah, when the alternative was that mimsy wee couch all on m’ own.” The noise outside had dropped to a muffled drone now – not unlike P.M’s Questions, he reflected as he guided her up the stairs. “Close the curtains pet, they’ve got long lenses not x-ray vision!”

She made sure to give the assembled hoards a glare through the nets as she did so before turning to him with the smile that always turned his knees to jelly. “Happy anniversary, Mr Tucker,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Miller’s comeuppance. Reeder’s long-overdue development of bollocks. Things that would have raised his spirits at any time were three times sweeter for being shared with the beautiful woman practically commanding with her eyes that he take her to bed NOW. “It certainly is.”

The last of the lights went out in the Tucker residence. The press stayed. 

For the first time, Malcolm didn’t care when he opened the curtains. “Poor fucker, that Ollie,” he murmured, casting a loving look back at the tousled brunet stretching languidly across their tumbled sheets. Sam rubbed her eyes, not awake enough to follow those leaps of logic she usually caught so well. Tears began to sting as he brushed an explanation across her brow.

“No job. No life. No Sam.”


End file.
